'WILL YOU SHAKE HANDS WITH YOUR FATHER?'
'It is peculiar to man to love even those who do wrong. And this
happens if, when they do wrong, it occurs to thee that they are
kinsmen, and that they do wrong through ignorance and
unintentionally, and that soon both of you will die; and above all,
that the wrongdoer hath done thee no harm, for he hath not made thy
ruling faculty worse than it was before.'--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS.
'To err is human; to forgive, divine.'
The drive to Brail that afternoon was a silent one; grim care sat on the
two young faces, and Michael, with his usual tact, devoted himself to
his mare. Now and then her skittishness gave him an opportunity of
saying a word or two, to which Cyril replied in monosyllables.
When they had left the inn, and were almost in sight of the cottage,
Michael suddenly asked Cyril if he had ever seen Mr. O'Brien. 'Thomas
O'Brien,' he added quickly.
'You mean my uncle?' returned Cyril curtly. 'No; I have never seen him.'
'Then I should like to tell you something about him. Of all the men I
have ever known, Thomas O'Brien is the one I have most honoured. I have
always had the greatest respect for him--for his honesty, integrity, and
child-like simplicity. In spite of his want of culture, he is the
gentleman his Creator intended him to be. Let me tell you, Blake, that
you may be proud to call such a man your uncle.' And with these words
Michael unlatched the little gate, and waited for them to follow him.
They were not unperceived. Long before they reached the porch the
cottage door was open, and Thomas O'Brien's genial face and strong,
thick-set figure blocked up the doorway.
Michael was about to speak, when, to his surprise, Cyril lifted his hat,
and then extended his hand to the old man.
'I believe you are my uncle, sir,' he said quietly. 'There can be no
need of an introduction: I am Cyril, and this is my brother Kester.'
A soft, misty look came into Thomas O'Brien's honest eyes.
'Ay, my lad, I am thinking I know you both, though I have never set eyes
on you before. You are kindly welcome, young gentlemen, for your own and
for your father's sake.' And here he gave them a hearty grasp of the
hand. 'The Captain is always welcome, as he knows. He and me have been
friends for half a score of years--eh, Captain?'
'Good God! are those my boys, Tom?'
The interruption was so sudden and unexpected that they all started, and
Cyril turned pale. Something familiar in the voice seemed to thrill him,
like an echo from a far-off time. He turned round quickly. A tall man,
with closely-cropped hair and a gray moustache, was standing behind him,
and regarding him with dark, melancholy eyes.
'Those two can never be my boys, Tom!' he repeated, in the same
incredulous, awestruck voice.
'Ay, lad, they are your own, surely; and you had better be thanking God
for His mercy in giving you such sons than be taking the holy name on
your lips.'
But Mat did not seem to hear this mild rebuke.
'Will you shake hands with your father, Cyril?' he said, with an air of
deep dejection. 'I wish it were a cleaner hand, for your sake; but I can
give you no other.'
'Do you think I would refuse it, sir?' returned the young man, touched,
in spite of himself.
And then it was Kester's turn. But as Mat's eyes fell on the boy's worn,
sickly face his manner changed.
'Is that my little chap--the young monkey who used to ride on my
shoulder and hold on by my hair? Dear! dear! who would have believed
it?'
Kester's pale face flushed a little.
'You are looking at my crutch, sir,' he said nervously; 'but I shall
soon throw it away. I am ever so much better now, am I not, Cyril?'
'And where's my little Mollie?' continued Mat--'"the baby," as we used
to call her?'
'Let us come away,' whispered Michael in Mr. O'Brien's ear. 'They will
get on better without us.'
The tears were running down the old man's face as they turned into the
little parlour.
'It beats me, sir, it beats me utterly, to see my poor lad trying to
make friends with his own children, and looking so shamed before them.
That is a fine-looking chap, that eldest one,' he went on--'Miss Ross's
sweetheart, as I used to call him. He is the sort any girl could fancy.
And he has a look of Mat about him, too, only he is handsomer and better
set up than Mat ever was. "I believe you are my uncle, sir." Few young
chaps would have said that. A fine fellow, and she has lost him. Well,
the Almighty sends trouble to the young as well as the old. May I light
my pipe, Captain? For I am a bit shaky, and all this has overset me.'
Meanwhile Cyril was saying:
'We have not brought Mollie. If you wish to see her, she shall come
another time.'
'Thank you, my lad; that is kindly spoken. And I have a sort of longing
to set eyes on her again. But you need not think that I am going to
trouble her, or you either. A man like me has no right to trouble
anyone.'
How could they answer him? But Mat did not seem to notice their silence.
His eyes were bent on the ground, and he twirled his gray moustache
fiercely.
'My children belong to their mother, and not to me. I made you over to
her years ago. She said I was not fit to have the charge of my own
children; and maybe she was right. It was not a wifely speech, but I
can't blame her. When you go home, tell her I'll keep my word--that I'll
lay no sort of claim to any of you.'
He spoke in the slow, brooding tone that was natural to him, and the
tears came into Kester's eyes as he listened.
Boy as he was, he understood the deep degradation of such words. This
tall, hungry-eyed man, who stood aloof and talked so strangely, was his
own father, who was voluntarily denuding himself of a father's
rights--an outcast thrown over by his wife and children--an erring, and
yet a deeply repentant man. Could anything be more unnatural and
horrible? Kester's boyish sense of justice revolted against this painful
condition of things; he longed to start up and take his father's hand.
'Do not be so miserable; whatever you have done, you are our father, and
we will be good to you.' This is what he would have said; but he only
looked at Cyril and held his peace.
Cyril had felt himself strangely attracted from the first. This was not
the father whom he had dreaded to see, and on whose countenance he had
feared to behold the stamp of the felon. Mat's worn, gentle face and
deep-set, sorrowful eyes only inspired him with pity; the haggard
weariness, the utter despondency of the man before him told their own
story. True, there was weakness, moral weakness; but, at least, there
was no glorying in his wrong-doing. The prodigal had come home weary of
his husks, and craving for more wholesome food.
'If I have done wrong, I have suffered for it,' his looks seemed to say;
and Cyril's generosity responded to the appeal.
'We are all in a difficult position,' he said; 'but there is no need to
make things worse than they are. It is not for us to judge our parents,
neither is it our fault that all these years we have believed that we
had but one. Now I know all, I feel you have not been treated fairly.'
'I thought you would have taken your mother's part, my boy,' replied Mat
humbly.
Cyril's words brought him some amount of consolation, only he could not
quite bring himself to believe them.
'I hope that I shall always be on the side where the right lies,' was
Cyril's answer. 'I do not wish to blame my mother. I think it is best
and wisest to be silent. You are a stranger to us, and we have not even
your memory to aid us. My own childish reminiscences are very vague: I
can just remember a big man who used to play with us, and whom we called
daddy; but I have no special recollection of him.'
'I hardly expected you to say as much as that,' and Mat's eyes
brightened; 'but, after all, I doubt if I am better off in that respect
than you. How am I to find my little chaps again when I look at you
both--a fine grown man, and that poor sickly lad beside you? Why,' he
continued in a tender, musing tone, 'the little chaps I remember had
rosy cheeks and curly heads. I can feel their bare legs swarming up me
now. "Give us a ride, dad!" It was always Kester who said that. He was
never still a moment unless he was asleep, and then he used to look so
pretty; but where shall I find him?--there is not a trace of the little
rogue left in him; and when I see my girl Mollie, it will be the same.'
Kester could stand no more; he started up so hastily that his crutch
slipped from under his arm, and he would have lost his balance if his
father had not caught him and held him fast.
'Why did you do that, boy? You have given me quite a fright? There!
there! I will pick up your stick for you, while you stop quietly in your
chair.'
But, to his surprise, Kester held him tightly by the wrist.
'Never mind the crutch, father; I am not afraid of a tumble. Somehow, my
leg gets stiff, but I don't mind it. I only wanted to say that, if you
like, I will come and see you sometimes, when I can get a lift; and I
will bring Mollie with me. I can't help what mother says,' continued the
boy, his face working, 'and I don't mean to let her hinder us from
coming. Cyril is going away, so he will not count; but I'll bring
Mollie: and though she is not your baby now, she will take to you and
cheer you up.'
Kester was quite out of breath with this long speech that he blurted
out, but he was hardly prepared for the result; for before he had
finished a low sob broke from Mat's lips, and he sat down shaking with
emotion, and covered his face with his hands. Kester looked at him
wistfully.
'Have I said anything to hurt him?' he whispered; but Mat's ears caught
the words.
'No, no,' he returned vehemently; 'you have put fresh life into me by
speaking so kindly. It was only the word "father" that I never thought
to hear. God bless you, my boy, for saying that! I thought that she
would have taught you to hate me--as she did herself.'
'I shall never hate you, father; I would not be so wicked. If you will
let me come and see you sometimes I will try to be good to you, and I
know Mollie will, too. I suppose,' continued Kester doubtfully, 'that I
must not ask you to come and see us in return. It is mother's house,
and----'
But Mat finished the speech:
'No, my lad, you are right. Your mother and I have parted for this
life.' And now he spoke with a sort of mournful dignity. 'The time was
when I worshipped the ground she walked upon; but there are limits to a
man's love. When she forsook me in my shame and trouble, when she stood
there taunting me in my prison cell, my heart seemed to die to her.
Olive is nought to me now but a bitter memory, and if she prayed to me
on her bended knees I would not enter her house.'
It was Cyril's turn to speak now.
'Yes, you are better apart,' he said in a low voice; 'and my mother has
always been my charge. I shall tell her that she must not hinder Mollie
or Kester from coming to see you. Shall you still remain here, father?'
He said the word with some little effort, but the same brightness came
into Mat's eyes.
'I think so, my lad; I would as lief stay with Tom. All these years he
has stuck to me, and I'll not forsake him now.'
'And you will be comfortable?'
Cyril asked the question with some degree of interest, and again Mat's
eyes glistened with pleasure.
'I doubt if I was ever so comfortable in my life,' he returned, without
any hesitation. 'You are young, my boy, and trouble is new to you, and
Heaven forbid that you should ever be able to put yourself in my place.
But if you only knew what it is to me to bid good-night to someone
again!
'It is not much of a life, perhaps,' went on Mat, with his gentle,
melancholy drawl; 'but to me it is heavenly in its peace and quiet.
Prissy is sometimes a bit harassing: but, then, most women are; but she
keeps things comfortable and ship-shape, and when she has gone off to
bed there is Tom and his pipe in the chimney-corner, and it is "Come and
have a chat, my lad, until it is time to turn in." Yes, yes, I'll bide
with Tom and be thankful.'
'Then we will come and see you here sometimes,' returned Cyril, rising;
'for myself I cannot answer at present----' He paused, and then
continued hurriedly: 'I shall not see you again for some time. I am
leaving Rutherford.'
'Yes, lad, I know,' and Mat sighed heavily; 'and it is all through me
that you are going. I wanted the Captain to hush it all up; but he would
not hear of it. When I think of all I have brought on you, I wonder you
can bring yourself to speak a kind word to me.'
'It is not all your fault; but I cannot talk of myself. Good-bye,
father. If we do not meet again for some time, it will be because things
are going badly with me; but I shall always be ready to help you, if you
need my assistance.'
'Thank you, my boy,' returned Mat huskily.
And then it was Kester's turn.
'I shall come soon, very soon, and Mollie shall come with me.'
'Mollie!' Mat repeated the name in fond, lingering fashion as he moved
to the window. 'My little girl! I wonder if she is like Olive? Cyril is;
he has all her good looks, but he has something in his face that Olive
never had. I almost felt shamed when he called me father; but the other
one--he is not my little chap, and yet he is--but somehow when he spoke
my whole heart seemed to go out to him.' And then Mat tried to light his
pipe, only his hand trembled too much to do it. 'If I could only have my
life back again!' he said to himself with a groan.
Cyril hardly broke the silence once during the drive back. It was not
until several days had passed that Michael heard how that interview with
his father had affected him. Cyril said very little even then, but
Michael was relieved to find that, on the whole, he had been more
attracted than repelled.
'Kester likes him, and in a way I like him too,' he remarked; 'we both
think he has been hardly used. My mother could have kept him
straight--there is no doubt of that--but she never tried to do so. One
is sorry for that sort of weakness, even if one cannot understand it,'
finished Cyril, with the feeling that there was nothing more to say.
Michael left them at the Cottage and drove on to Woodcote. His day's
work had been somewhat arduous, and he felt fagged and weary. It was
long past tea-time, he knew, but he wondered if he could ask Crauford to
bring him some. Michael's long years of ill-health made him depend on
this feminine panacea for all ills more than most men. That Michael
hated to miss his tea was a well-known fact in the Ross household.
Another time Audrey would have cared for his comforts, he thought, as he
dragged himself up the stairs in a spiritless manner. Tired Nature was
avenging herself in her usual fashion, and Michael's head and limbs were
aching. Perhaps something else ached too.
But his mood changed when he entered his room. After all, he had not
been forgotten. A cheery little fire burnt and spluttered as though
newly lighted, and a tiny kettle sang merrily on its trivet; the
tea-tray was on the table, and, as Michael regarded these preparations
with an expression of satisfaction, he heard Audrey's well-known knock
at the door.
'Shall I make your tea, Michael,' she asked, 'or would you rather be
alone? Gage and Percival are downstairs, and, as I was sure you would
be tired, I told Crauford to bring up the kettle. Shall I stay or not?'
she continued, a little surprised by his silence.
'Stay, by all means!' was his only reply, as he threw himself into his
easy-chair.
He would have thanked her--and she evidently expected to be thanked--but
he was afraid he should say too much. She had thought of him and his
comfort in her own unhappiness, though her face was still pale with her
inward trouble.
'You have had a trying day,' she continued, as she knelt down on the rug
a moment to coax the fire to burn more brightly; 'and of course it has
taken it out of you. I was quite sure that you would not be in the mood
for Gage and Percival. Percival is very kind, but somehow he is not
restful; he is so very bracing.' And she sighed as though she had found
him so.
'People are not always in a condition for a tonic, are they, Audrey?'
'No,' she replied quietly; 'and then it is no use forcing it on them.
But I must not be hard on Percival; he was very kind, only somehow his
conversation was a little too bracing. He and Gage were full of plans;
they meant it all for my good: but it was a little tiring.'
'Poor child!' and Michael's sympathising tone was very healing.
'But we will not talk about my silly self,' rousing herself; 'there is
something else I want to know. I guess where you have been this
afternoon. You have taken Cyril to see his father.'
'Yes; and Kester too.'
'I am very glad,' forcing a smile. 'It was right--quite right. He will
be the happier for not shirking his duty.'
Then she looked at Michael a little pleadingly, as though to beg for
some account of the interview.
'I am afraid I cannot tell you much,' he returned, feeling sorry that he
had so little to communicate. 'As far as I could see, Blake behaved
uncommonly well; he shook hands with O'Brien at once. But, of course,
after that I only thought it right to efface myself.'
'But surely Cyril has spoken of his father?'
'No, he has not said a word; but I daresay he will open out more by and
by, I am going up to town with him to-morrow, and we shall have plenty
of opportunity if he feels disposed to talk.'
'Are you going to stay?'
'Well, yes--he is hardly fit to be left just now. I shall put him up at
South Audley Street, and then he can look about him for a bit. I daresay
I shall be back in a week or two.'
'Oh, Michael, I never thought of this. Are you sure it will not trouble
you?'
'Not a bit,' he returned cheerfully. 'I want to see my lawyer, and do
one or two things; so it comes quite handy.'
But this plausible pretext did not in the least deceive her.
'It is no use saying what I think,' she said hurriedly, and he saw the
gleam of a tear on her eyelash. 'No one but yourself would ever do such
things. I shall miss you--I think I shall miss you more than ever--but
it will be such a comfort to feel you are with him.'
'Oh, as to that, he will not need me long. When I see him fairly settled
I shall come home. I want to speak to Unwin about him. You have often
heard me speak of Unwin: he is nearly old enough to be my father; but we
are great chums, and I mean to tell him the whole story about Blake. If
I could only get Unwin to stand his friend, there will be some hope for
him.'
'Yes, I understand; but it is you who will be his benefactor. Don't
frown, Michael, I am not going to thank you; I cannot. Now please tell
me one other thing before I go: will you write to me?'
'If you wish it,' he replied without hesitation. 'Oh yes, I will
certainly write and let you know how we are getting on; but I think it
might be as well for you not to answer my letters.'
A flush came to Audrey's face, but she perfectly understood the delicacy
that induced Michael to make this stipulation; he would deprive himself
of one of his greatest pleasures rather than Cyril should be pained by
the sight of her handwriting.
'I will not write,' she said in a low voice. 'Now I must go down to
Gage.'
But he detained her.
'Wait a moment; there is no hurry, is there? And it is my turn to ask
questions. I want to know what you are going to do with yourself during
my absence?'
And there was no mistaking his anxiety, though he strove to hide it.
'I shall do as usual,' she returned tranquilly. 'Mollie will come to me
every morning, and we shall work hard at our lessons, and----'
But he interrupted her.
'Are you sure that your father will approve of Mollie's visits?' he
asked.
'There is no reason why he should disapprove,' she replied quickly; 'but
of course I shall speak to him. There can be no possible reason why my
poor Mollie should be punished. Father would not wish me to go to the
Gray Cottage, and, indeed, I should not wish it myself; but there can be
no objection to Mollie coming here.'
'Perhaps not; and, after all, it will not be for long.'
'No, it will not be for long; so I must do my best for her. Do not
trouble about me, Michael; I shall be as busy as possible. I am not
going away with Gage, as she wishes. I tell her I would rather stay
quietly with father and mother--perhaps next holidays--but we need not
talk of that.'
'But you will be very dull.'
'No, indeed, I shall have too much to do--at least, I do not mean to
think whether I am dull or not; but, Michael, I shall depend for a great
deal of my comfort on your letters.'
Then he knew that the burden of her lover's unhappiness was very heavy
upon her, but that she would not willingly speak of it even to him.
'I will tell you all that there is to tell. If you do not hear from me,
it will be because there is nothing to say;' and with these words he let
her go.
He did not speak to her again that evening; for though Mr. Harcourt had
taken his departure, Geraldine had remained, with the amiable intention
of cheering her sister. If she did not quite succeed in her mission, it
was for no want of effort on Audrey's part, who, as usual, did her best
for everyone. But more than once Michael detected a weary look in her
eyes, that told him that she would fain have been left alone. 'But that
is the last thing that Gage and Harcourt would ever do,' he said to
himself, with a shade of bitterness, as he saw the gentleness and
patience with which Audrey received her sister's attentions.